


Guiding Stars

by Wishywash



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, Tags to be added, based on an rp, original Quarian design
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishywash/pseuds/Wishywash
Summary: When Solo'Masan Nar Aerie sneaks aboard the SSV Normandy Elliot Shepard has no intention of keeping him. However plans change, destiny twists, and needles point in new directions. Read what happens when a writer gets really pissed that there are no gay male alien romances.





	Guiding Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for beginning this tale with me. Most of this was plotted out and rp'd with my boyfriend. I hope that you can continue this journey with me. Buckle in, it's a long one.

The pilgrimage was a sacred rite for most young Quarians. It was a time meant to show all you had learned and all you could provide. The very act itself was, in essence, what it meant to be Quarian. The struggle to survive in the galaxy with no other resources other than your wits and hands. There is no turning back, no going home, only finding something worth all the struggle; Worth wandering into the darkness of space and returning to those you love.

That being said, fuck the pilgrimage.

Solo had thought, upon his initial leaving of home, that the Citadel would be a good place to start. There were so many other people, so many opportunities, who wouldn't go to the Citadel?

Smart Quarians, apparently. He had thought that the seat of the galactic government would be more welcoming. Instead, Solo found himself banned from most work. He was called a vagrant, an outcast, watched with keen eyes and cold hearts. 

Maybe that's how he ended up here. Starving, shaking with hunger, and watching the ships come in and out of the docking bay. All the shelters, meant to keep people like him off the streets and alive, were full up. So Solo sat, and watched the stars pass by the large window. The ships, they glittered as they came to port. Their steel haul glimmering like comets as they rocketed too and fro. 

In that moment he thinks that, maybe, it wouldn't be so bad to go home empty handed. But going home took credits, something that he didn't have. Maybe if he cried and begged enough someone would spare him the time, but that took energy, something else that wasn't readily available to him, with his empty and gurgling stomach. He is about to close his eyes, maybe take a nap, when he spots it.

It's sleek, beautiful, and easily surpasses every ship he's seen that day, possibly every ship he's seen in his life. It is obviously human, possibly Turian, but that doesn't matter. It glimmers against the backdrop of the universe like a supernova, on the ship's side is inscribed the human word "Normandy." Solo doesn't know what it means, oh, but he wants to learn. He moves to his feet, going to press his mask against the glass, eyes wide as moons. The ship pulls into dock, gracefully perching there. He sees people hurrying up the gangway, attaching hoses and pumps. 

Solo's fingers move to the fabric at his hips, tugging and pulling at it as he thinks. His mind works itself into a whirl. He had a plan. It was a stupid, risky, foolhardy plan, but it was a plan nonetheless. He moves as quickly as his legs will carry him, which isn't very fast, towards the Normandy. It's not hard to find. When he reaches the bay doors there are a lot of uniformed alliance officers moving about. Some of them are smiling and laughing to one another, others are grim faced soldiers, guns on their hips and ready for a fight. But there are other species amongst them as well, a Krogan stands near the door, towering overy anyone who comes near him, he is scarred from countless battles, Solo works hard not to make eye contact with him. A peal of laughter makes his head turn and Solo has to squint, standing on his toes to see what's going on. A Turian and a human stand together. The Turian lightly punches the human's shoulder, obviously amused over something that had occurred. The human's bright red hair is a contrast to the Turian's blue armor, both of them are obviously soldiers, if the guns strapped to their backs are any indication. Solo watches them for a moment, unable to hear what they are talking about, but they seem to be good friends.

Most of the crew of the Normandy seem to be good friends, everyone is in a good mood. Happy.

The thought brings a pang of pain to his stomach and Solo forces himself to move. To put his plan in action. The Normandy had to be restocking, stopping at the Citadel seemed pointless if they weren't. Solo looks around. There. At the back of the ship was the cargo bay, it's door open as crates were being loaded on. The crates were stacked three high, they were numerous, meant to keep a crew fit and happy for a long voyage. 

The good thing about being the Citadel for so long? He had intimate knowledge of it's inner workings. There was a hatch meant for the access and movement of the keepers, that lead straight to the main loading area of the docking bay. It would be a tight fit, but he could make it through.

Quickly, he moved to the hatch. It wasn't too hard to get in, just unloosening a few bolts. The hard part came after he'd wriggled and crawled through the long walk way. It was the timing, there were a few workers milling about the area, slowly doing their cumbersome job. If they spotted him, he would obviously be caught. Solo was careful, oh so carefully, with his movements as he slowly made his way out of his hiding spot and to the nearest crate. 

He forces himself to say low, out of sight, as he begins to undo the locks. The oxygen hisses as they come undone, and Solo swears he is about to be caught. But, miraculously, the dock workers don't notice. Then it is the simple task of lifting the lid away, clambering inside, and fitting the top back on. 

Thankfully, the crate had been full of rations, the foil packages were slightly larger than his palm. He is stuffed between them and the lid of the crate. He had to admit to himself that it was an awkward position, with his knees to his chin and his neck craning painfully but he had made it. Solo sits there for hours? Perhaps days? Before he feels the crate shifting, moving, around him. There is a grunt of exertion, the sound of a man lifting both the crate and the full weight of a Quarian by himself. There are a few tense moments where Solo thinks he is about to be discovered. What would the Normandy crew do when they found him stowing away? Would they space him? Jail him? Either way he hopes they feed him. He is almost tempted to begin eating at the ration packets beneath him, but he can't tell if they are dextro safe or not, and he would hate to have to spit the food back up. The threat of death leaves his mind as he is abruptly, and somewhat painfully, dropped.

Through the pain Solo realizes that he must be aboard the ship, as there are no further movements after that. The only noise in his cramped space is the sound of his breathing. It dawns on him that, maybe, this wasn't the best plan. He had no idea when the Normandy crew would look through their inventory and take stock, no clue if they would take stock at all. There is a brief moment of panic, and his quickening breaths begin to make his filter pop with sobs. Eventually, he calms.

He got himself into this situation.  
At least it was better than dying on the streets.  
~

When Elliot returns to the Normandy he is welcomed with crisp solutes. He is quick to nod to his passing soldiers, walking at a clipped pace towards Pressly's station. 

"Shepard," He says, turning to him. Datapad in hand, he passes it to him, "All acquisitions are accounted for. Just need to do inventory."

Elliot nods, glancing over the list before looking up to his Navigator. "Is there anyone we can spare?"

Pressly's lips tighten, slightly annoyed, "Unfortunately, no sir," He states, "Most of our crew is off getting drunk. I can have Engineer Adams-" Elliot lifts a hand stopping him with a polite smile.

"It's fine," He says, "I can do it. I'll ask Garrus if he wants to help. This way we'll be able to take off tomorrow bright and early."

An easy smile spreads over the navigator's face, "I'm sure our crew and their hangovers will be happy to hear that sir." With that, Pressly returns to his station, studying their projected course. Elliot moves away again, letting out a sigh as he steps into the elevator, pressing a button to send himself down into the cargo bay.

The space is packed tight with crates of varying sizes, all of which have to be opened up, taken count of, and stowed away. Elliot had done it before, in his younger days, and he could do it again now. Specter or not, everyone had their duties, and his was to the Normandy as a whole.

Garrus sits on one of the crates, his sniper rifle in hand, polishing the cool steel of the metal. He had returned earlier than Elliot, preferring instead to maintain his weapons than wandering around the Persidium.

Elliot sends him a sly grin, walking up to him and wiggling the datapad in his hand. "Guess who got put on inventory duty," He says, and Garrus nods.

"Need any help?"

"If you would," Elliot says, already beginning to look over the list. The next hour passes and slowly but surely they look over each crate. Unpacking and counting each of them in turn. 

It is Elliot who spots him first.

Elliot had just lifted the lid of a crate. It was supposed to have a shipment of rations inside.

Not a Quarian.

He stares down at him, bug eyed, taking in the blue, stylized fabric and the purple mask that stares back at him. The Quarian is just as surprised as he is, he can see the glowing whites of his eyes rounding at his presence as well.

Quietly, calmly, Elliot shuts the lid again.

"Hey Garrus," He says, his tone nonchalant, leaning on the lid of the crate in case their little stowaway attempted to flee, "Come check this out."  
~

When the lid lifted Solo tried to speak. The red haired human, the one he'd spotted before, was staring down at him, obviously surprised. 

But what was he supposed to say? 'Hello, I'm starving?' It was tempting, but no. Nothing he could do or say would convince them to help him. Help him do what? Join them? Look at the ship? Let them take him on super cool adventures into space? He wished. Before even a syllable can leave his lips, the human shuts the lid. Solo curses his luck, they were probably going to grab security to arrest him. Y'know, like a sane person.

But they don't. Instead they come back with the Turian from before, and they both gape down at him as if he were some exotic pet.

"Uh," He finally manages to squeeze out, "Hello?"


End file.
